


So Many Courses

by Kahvi



Category: Red Dwarf
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-06
Updated: 2015-07-13
Packaged: 2018-04-08 00:00:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 1,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4282962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kahvi/pseuds/Kahvi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For Rimmer, making love to a woman is like a Japanese meal; it's complicated, and you never quite know what to do with yourself, or what anything is, or if you're actually enjoying it. Rimmer and Nirvannah, in a series of tiny, complex courses. Bon Appétit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Amuse-Bouche

**Author's Note:**

> For RD Series Weeks on Tumblr: Little morsels will be posted throughout Series V Week.

This is how he's supposed to feel. Or rather, _not_ how he's supposed to feel, but it's how he's supposed to feel about how he felt back in the corridor. _This_ is appropriate; the terror and wrongness dialed down to a dull, near-inaudible hum, just like Father always told him and Mother pointedly did not. (Mother was always so much better at these things.) He is left with uncertainty, but that's all right, that's OK; he's dealt with that his entire life and now, death. Rimmer knows a lot about sex; he's seen all the required bookfilms, taken all the mandatory classes. Even Io House wouldn't let an underclassman graduate without those under his - invariably - belt. Even they had _standards_.

OK, right; he's not concentrating. He has to concentrate. He's on a bed that isn't real, but very comfortable, with a woman made of light. A woman he can touch, is supposed to touch, a woman who is smiling at him and twisting her face into shapes he knows should make sense to him. He swallows. It's probably OK not to say anything. It's definitely _not_ OK to hesitate like this, especially in front of potential female nudity. Man of action. And so on and so forth. He swallows again, and she laughs, and he makes the mistake of looking down, just below her collarbone or thereabouts.  


Breasts.

He's supposed to know what to do with those. He's certainly not supposed to be twitching and whimpering under his breath. Or is he? Some of the films were unclear on that. He's not prepared; he wasn't prepared when he was alive, and he's certainly not prepared when she opens her robe and potential becomes reality, and very much his problem. He needs to be more of a problem solver; Father always said so. _Don't think about Father now_. They're swaying. He certainly wasn't expecting that. He can't remember what should feel like; he's only done this once before. Barely. He touches them gently with his lips. It's almost... it's... something.

She's smiling. That's something.


	2. Gazpacho

Climax is entirely the wrong word, and also too late to do either of them any good; he has quite literally finished before they have even begun.

She opens her mouth and he panics, sticks his tongue back in again like a stopper in an overflowing bottle, already desperately considering retreat. He is not actually _thinking_ any of this, of course; he barely has the presence of mind to yield to her movements, try to decode whatever the smeg it is she wants him to _do_. He'll do it; he's good at following orders, even if it strikes him that it might not be the manliest option in this particular scenario. He has no experience with this scenario, that's the thing; when it's over, it's supposed to be, well, over. You're not supposed to keep going.

Nirvannah keeps going.

All right, perhaps he's got it wrong. Again. Wouldn't be the first time, but at least he might be able to salvage something from the wreckage. Maybe it's a hologram thing? The fact that he is firming again, to her considerable delight (if that is what that expression means; how is he to know, how could he possibly be expected to know), that has to be a hologram thing. He can't remember that from before, not that he can remember much from before. He remembers the individual slices of pepperoni on the pizza better than the act itself.

She's stopped smiling... sort of. There is a question in her eyes, or something very much like it, so Rimmer gives his best debonair look in return. Yessir, let's get down to some proper _intercoursing_. Sexorama. He tries to keep his smirk steady, but every time he moves, his crotch rubs squelchingly against the inside of his uniform trousers; evidence of holographic realism taken quite a few steps too far. Rimmer thinks his uniform away, and she misunderstands immediately.

Rimmer squirms quietly in her hands and does not flinch.


	3. Fish

There is movement, of some sort. Limbs. Bodies. That sort of thing. It feels good, there's no smegging question about that, and he sort of knows how he's doing it (and what it is he's doing), so Rimmer keeps... doing it. Twists his fingers. Rubs his leg up and down. Again, that sort of thing. And it _does_ feel good.

He wonders, vaguely, how often this is to be expected of him, and if he's doing it right. He probably is, because Nirvannah is making all sorts of right-sounding noises, but if it's one thing years of public schooling has taught Rimmer, it's that you can never, ever know if you're doing it right. In lessons, yes; but outside them, on the grounds and on the field and green, then, there, nothing is certain. Not that he minds, of course. Oh, he certainly doesn't mind. Nirvannah is lovely and soft and while not exactly what he's been told he's supposed to like, quite possibly close to something he'd imagine he'd like given the opportunity.

Which, well, he suppose he has, now. That's something to consider.

Meanwhile, he twists his fingers. Rubs his leg up and down. Listens to the noise.

She's smaller, in the bed, or perhaps that's just the angle. He's not exactly used to seeing... well... _anyone_ from this particular angle. Her hair untangles from whatever it is that's been holding it up, and drapes across her shoulders. When he twists his fingers, it twists with him, moving on his own accord. Is she doing that? Is the ship's computer? What sort of a computer has the capacity to keep so many holograms running, anyway? Possibly he was told, quite recently at that, but his mind is everywhere and nowhere at the same time, not keeping up with what his body is doing. It's like an exam, really; he just sits down and gets on with it. Or lies down, rather.

She blinks, looking up, and Rimmer realizes he's stopped. He twists his fingers, rubs his leg up and down and she hums appreciatively.

Rimmer does it again; keeps on doing it. If it's worth doing, it's worth doing over and over and over again, just to make sure. Because you never know.


	4. Meat

At one point or another, some form of penetration should occur. Even Rimmer knows that much. So, it appears, does his body, in a hitherto unprecedented show of cooperation. _Erection, check._ Well, that’s the difficult bit sorted, right? The rest would be all instinct, at least to Rimmer’s recollection. Which, as previously established, wasn’t much of one. 

It will be fine.

Perfectly fine.

He begins to panic. 

All right; best take stock of the situation. He’d already had one orgasm, and with any luck so had she, so how disastrous could any potential outcome be? Perhaps they had better call it a day – afternoon, whatever – and save the in-and-out bit for some later occasion? Surely there must be a polite way to raise the issue? So to speak. 

Oh smeg, she’s shifting her legs. Turning to the side, and, yes, nudging him very politely in the opposite direction. Oh, smeg. She is getting _on top of him_. Why? Does she know? How could she possibly know, and anyway it isn’t true; no matter what Lister said, the McGruder thing totally does count even though neither one of them were technically conscious. Rimmer nearly opens his mouth to explain, but she misunderstands again and covers it with her own, and then there’s that business of tongues again and they both get a little bit carried away. 

And then she’s slid right on to him, just like that. Rimmer didn’t even notice. His hips are moving too, jutting like an electrocuted frog, and for some ridiculous reason he is sweating. What possible reason could the Jupiter Mining Corporation have for including that particular subroutine, he can only speculate. He tries not to. 

With a little jutting and moaning and a thrust or two, it’s all over bar the triple cheese. Or whatever’s next. Rimmer feels himself firming again, and swallows. 

Some time later, so does she.


	5. Cheese

“We could always sim one up,” she says, and Rimmer purses his lips so as to indicate he has any idea what she means, which he doesn’t. “A pizza,” she specifies, and he purses them further, begins to nod, then shakes his head. Had he said something? He could really only remember one word, and it had nothing to do with Italian cuisine. 

They lie in what Rimmer desperately hopes is amicable silence, while he tries equally desperately to arrange the covers so as to hide his forth (or was it fifth; smeg knows he isn’t counting) erection. He’s honestly not certain how long this can go on, and has no intention of bringing the subject up unless she does. He smiles, with difficulty, wondering if it might just disappear if he thinks too hard about it. 

“Well?” A hint of irritation, just barely nasal. She taps a fingernail against a perfect thigh. 

“I’m sorry… what?”

“Shall I sim one up for us? It’s just, we don’t normally eat, you see. Some people like to cook, of course, for artistic expression, and we’ve a restaurant for that purpose actually. Tell you what, I could give them a buzz, they might find it-”

“I love you.” Rimmer slams his mouth shut hard enough to crack teeth in an actual, living person. Where the goiting hell had that come from? He stares at her bare midriff, and the bare breasts above and bare… bits… below, and yes, that is it, isn’t it? Easy to get carried away. It was-

“Beg pardon?” 

“Nothing.” Exactly. Nothing at all. “Carry on.” 

She blinks at him, lashes parting in perfect synchrony with her lips. How does she _do_ that? Then her eyes fall on the blankets, where he’s failed to cover himself properly again, and her hand moves from the bedside console to... “Another round?” She coos. 

Tennis, Rimmer thinks. Mixed doubles. He can only nod.


End file.
